


Giving up the fight

by WoodsWitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Missing Scene, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), bickering/flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: The evening after the apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley are faced with quite a few questions. What does it mean to have openly chosen earth, and each other, over heaven and hell? And how can they avoid the vengeance of their former sides that is surely coming?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 54





	Giving up the fight

Though he took care to mask it with his customary swagger, Crowley was feeling positively giddy as he approached the door to his flat. This morning, the world had been about to end. For a few hours in the afternoon, that had ceased to matter, the key to saving the world seemingly gone along with his main motivation for doing so. But now... The world was still here. And his favorite being in that world was not only _not_ dead, but had agreed to stay here, with him. "Right. Here we are," he said, swinging open the door.

Aziraphale looked around at the industrial-looking concrete walls. "Oh. It's very...modern, isn't it?" _But of course it would be_ , the angel scolded himself, _you know how he likes to keep up with human trends. Say something nice!_ "The artwork is very interesting. And what gorgeous plants!" he added, with more enthusiasm.

"Yeah, well, they know what's good for them," Crowley muttered vaguely. It had only now occurred to him that, while the flat was undoubtedly stylish, it was not nearly as inviting a space as the angel's bookshop. He didn't really spend enough time in here to make it feel properly lived-in. Still, nothing for it now. "Why don't I get us some wine?" he suggested.

The angel smiled, still looking somewhat nervous. "All right."

"Good. You make yourself comfortable. I'm gonna go wash my face, and then I'll bring us a bottle, yeah?" _Please don't go anywhere_ , the demon's eyes would have pleaded, if they had not been hidden behind his customary dark glasses.

The angel nodded.

"OK. Be right back."

Normally the demon would have just miracled himself clean, but that seemed unwise. The last thing he wanted right now was hell getting a report of his location. So he tossed his sooty jacket into the corner and turned on the tap. Besides, he reflected, splashing water over his face and neck, there were times when the touch of real earthly things was reassuring. And the day that all those things might have ceased to exist - but hadn't - was certainly one of them. As he finished, he reached out for his glasses...and paused, studying his own yellow-eyed face in the mirror. He left the glasses on the counter, and fluffed his auburn hair instead. Then he sauntered off to the kitchen to find some glasses.

Back in the living room, Aziraphale sat down on the sleek black leather sofa. But, finding it curiously difficult to sit still, he soon got up and went exploring. He took a closer look at the plants, whose magnificently glossy leaves showed a distinct tendency to move or tremble in the absence of any breeze. A gap in the wall turned out to be a door that rotated at a touch, revealing a room containing a large flatscreen, a desk, and an ornate, thronelike chair. Incongruously, there was a plastic bucket tipped over on the floor near a second door. A wall safe stood open, and there were other shards of plastic scattered across the carpet. The angel went to take a closer look and stepped in something squishy. He glanced down.

"Oh, good heavens!"

From the kitchen, Crowley heard the half-startled, half-horrified exclamation, and hurried over to investigate.

He found Aziraphale staring down at the puddle of melted demon and holy water in his office.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't have a chance to tell you about that. So you know how I said hell had figured out the whole Antichrist mixup was sort of my fault?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"Yeah, well, two of them came here to, er, collect me. So I used the, um, _insurance_ to make a booby trap. Thanks for that, by the way." He waved at the empty thermos on the desk. "It got one of them."

Crowley couldn't quite make sense of the angel's expression. He seemed relieved and agitated simultaneously.

"But if they know...are you sure it's quite safe for you to be here?"

The demon shrugged. "For tonight, probably. They'll be far too busy trying to restore order in the ranks to bother about me just yet. Tomorrow...yeah, probably not. We might need to find somewhere else to go for a bit."

_We_ , the angel noted. But of course they had been a team of sorts for centuries now, since long before they would have admitted as much out loud. He glanced down at the puddle again. "Shouldn't we clean it up?"

"What, now?"

"Well...well, I wouldn't want you to stumble into it. That holy water is still active. Look, why don't I..."

He moved to snap his fingers, but Crowley stopped him. "I wouldn't. Best not to draw attention to ourselves. And I'm not planning on wandering around my office in the middle of the night."

The angel looked flustered. "Ah. Of course not. Naturally. Not thinking straight, I suppose."

Crowley gave him an appraising look. Eventually, he said: "Look, it's...been a long day. Eventful. We could both use some rest."

"Oh. Yes. Very sensible." Embarrassment seemed to have been added to the mix of expressions flitting over the angel's face.

Crowley's sigh had a resigned tone to it. "You can have my room, if you like. I'll take the sofa."

A hand caught his arm as he turned out the door. "No, no, dear boy. I couldn't put you out like that."

"Really, it's no..." He paused, noticing that Aziraphale's hand had shifted, and was now holding his.

The angel saw that the demon's snake-like eyes looked puzzled, to the extent that that was possible. He flushed slightly. "I...I thought perhaps we might share. If...if you don't mind, I mean."

Crowley's eyebrows went up. "Yeah, all right. Come on, then."

Although the angel seemed strangely unwilling to let go of his hand, Crowley was careful to leave a good cubit of space between them on the bed as he lay down on top of the covers. Just _this_ was such a massive and unhoped-for change, it seemed unwise to risk making any assumptions. So he just lay quietly, occasionally running his thumb over the angel's knuckles. Aziraphale, on the other hand, seemed to be having trouble settling down; He kept readjusting his pillow and tossing from side to side. Occasionally he squeezed the demon's hand as if checking it was still there. Crowley knew the angel wasn't much for sleeping, but surely this wasn't normal for him, was it? When he noticed an odd pattern to the angel's breathing, almost like he was trying not to cry, he decided it was time to say something.

"What's up, Angel?"

Aziraphale rolled over, and saw a pair of golden eyes staring at him with concern. "What do you mean?"

"You're all....twitchy. Is something worrying you?" There were a lot of obvious candidates for what might be bothering the angel, but Crowley didn't want to guess wrong and remind him of something anxiety-provoking that he _hadn't_ thought of yet. Or that might make him leave.

The angel sighed. "Well...If you must know, it was that...mess in there. I can't help thinking about how that might have been you. It reminded me of why I didn't want to give you that stuff in the first place."

"But it _wasn't_ me. Your gift saved me. And, Angel, you don't think...You know I never would, right? No matter how bad things seemed. I wouldn't do that to you."

_Shit, did I say that last bit out loud?_ he thought. _Well, it is true._ _Its not like I could ever look at that stupid tartan thermos and not remember I had something to live for, someone who would blame themselves if I were gone, could I?_ He'd often wondered if the angel had done that on purpose. He had always hoped so.

"I know, or at least I suppose I...I trusted you wouldn't." The angel sniffed. "But...you said they sent those two to...to drag you back to hell. And what if you had tripped carrying that bucket? I just...I hadn't thought of how many ways things could have gone wrong over the past few days. Things that meant I might never have seen you again."

Crowley gave him a crooked smile, his heart swelling. "Well. Now you know how I felt finding your bookshop on fire."

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. Not really over the loss of the books, though he was still processing that. It was the memory of the soot-covered, whiskey-soaked, distraught-looking demon he had encountered when trying to make his way back to earth. "Oh, dear boy....But you do know ordinary fire wouldn't _really_ kill me, of course?"

"No, but..." The demon took a deep breath. "Well, there might not have been an earth to come back to, even if they'd let you. I couldn't have stopped the Apocalypse on my own - I didn't know where to go! So the effect would have been the same."

Aziraphale swallowed. "Yes. I suppose it would."

There was a long pause. "Angel..." Crowley said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"When I said I'd lost my best friend. You _do_ know I meant you, right? Only you said..."

Aziraphale looked embarrassed. "Oh. Well. I did _hope_ that's what you meant. But I...I didn't want to presume." He glanced away.

The demon's eyes widened. "Didn't want to... Who else could I possibly have meant, you nitwit?"

"I don't know!" the angel said miserably, "But I'd said some unkind things recently. You know, about not liking you, and us not being friends. I didn't mean it, but...well, if you thought I did..."

Crowley gave a crooked grin. "It feels _very_ strange for a demon to say this, but: I forgive you. After all - you came back, didn't you?" Seeing the angel's relieved smile, he added, with a touch of his usual mocking tone: "Anyway, you should know by now that you'd have to do better than _that_ to get rid of me."

Aziraphale recalled all the times over the past six thousand years when Crowley had suddenly turned up, often to tease him, but just as often to be helpful or to suggest a new restaurant. And he kept coming back even though the angel had been rather rude on several of those occasions. A realization struck him that was very much past due.

Somehow over the course of their conversation the angel and the demon had crept closer together, so that only a few inches separated them. Aziraphale reached out and cupped Crowley's jaw in his hand, his thumb running over the little serpent tattoo under his ear. The demon closed his eyes with a small shudder.

"I love you too, my dear," the angel said quietly.

Crowley's eyes snapped open. "What?"

"I...I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier. I couldn't even say it to myself until about eighty years ago. And then...well, they harp on - ha - so much Up There about demons not being _able_ to love that I thought I must be imagining things. But I wasn't, was I?"

His night vision being considerably worse than the demon's - though considerably better than a human's - Aziraphale didn't get the full effect of Crowley's thunderstruck expression, but he did get the gist.

"B...Wh...I mean, I _was_ trying not to be _too_ obvious..." the demon sputtered, "But I thought...well, I assumed you _knew_ , you just didn't... I mean, why in...in _Somebody's_ name, did you think I was willing to do idiotic things like walk across consecrated ground to stop you from getting discorporated if I supposedly didn't love you?"

The angel sighed. "I worked out that you _cared_ a long time ago. But I thought..." He paused. "Well, I was being a fool, so never mind what I thought. Can you forgive me for that too?"

Crowley grinned, and twined his fingers through the angel's short pale curls.

"Come here, you adorable idiot," he said, leaning in to kiss him.

Aziraphale responded, shyly at first and then with increasing enthusiasm. The demon gave a pleased-sounding hiss and turned to nibble gently on his earlobe. The angel gasped as he felt Crowley's tongue, which seemed to have gone narrow and forked, flick along the tender skin on the side of his neck.

Old habits died hard, though. "We shouldn't. If they knew..."

The demon brought his head up, and gave him a crooked smile. "Do you think our former sides could possibly be any angrier at us than they are already?"

"Probably not," Aziraphale admitted. Recalling how much the demon had seemed to enjoy it, he reached up to stroke the snake tattoo once more.

Crowley made an odd growly sound in the back of his throat and pulled the angel into a closer embrace. Then he paused and leaned back to look at him. "Angel, you're glowing."

Aziraphale glanced at his hands, which were indeed manifesting a celestial light. "Oh. It doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked anxiously. Demons were after all allergic to holy things, sometimes terminally so.

Crowley kissed him lightly, then licked his lips. "No. Tingles a bit, but not in a bad way." Another experimental kiss. "Mmm. No, not bad at all. And it looks quite enchanting. You wouldn't be out of place on top of a Christmas tree."

"Oh, shut up!" And Aziraphale enforced this order by making sure the demon's lips were occupied with something other than talking.

Aziraphale's glow brightened, and a dark penumbra rose up from the demon to match it, the light and shadow swirling around one another in friendly opposition. Aziraphale found that Crowley's dark flame didn't hurt him either. There was no hellfire here, only a cocooning night that smelled like cinnamon and ash, and sent delicious tremors through his whole being. Crowley, for his part, felt like he was back in heaven - heaven the way he remembered it, before the first war, when it was warm and bright and smelled like flowers that hadn't yet been invented. Except now that smell was mixed with Aziraphale's characteristic scent of tea and old books, which made it even better, as did the near certainty that the owner of _this_ heaven wasn't going to cast him out.

A careful observer might have noticed that the two entwined figures did not seem entirely solid, with hands and limbs that didn't so much rub up _against_ the other's flesh as slightly _through_ it. This melding effect was a largely unintentional result of their efforts to get as close to one another as possible, making up for the centuries of unnecessary distance. But after a while, as they pulled closer and it became harder to tell where one being ended and the other began, they began to sense something like a white flame at the center, blazing painfully bright and hot.

_Pity I can't inhabit yours._ _Angel, demon...we'd probably explode._

Abruptly, they pulled back, separate once more, and the flame faded, though the swirl of light and darkness did not.

"You all right?" the demon asked, panting. His pupils had grown so wide they were almost round.

"Mmhm. But maybe a smidge more temperance going forward, eh my dear?"

They went on with a bit more caution but no less delight. Aziraphale was reminded of the blessings of religious ecstasy he had been tasked to deliver to humans from time to time.

_Although really_ , he amended, as the sensation crested and then crashed like a wave against the shore _, I suppose its a bit more like the version Crowley delivered to those nuns back in 1538_. All part of The Arrangement. He had been quite irate when he found out, but the demon had been unrepentant. 'What, you're mad that I improved the miracle?' he'd said innocently, adding with a not-so-innocent grin: 'Anyway, it's not like they're allowed any fun otherwise.' Aziraphale had to admit that the demon might have had a point.

Angel and demon fell back against the pillows, flushed and panting and happily exhausted. The light and the darkness had both faded and they were back to their usual selves. They were even still fully clothed, though considerably ruffled.

Eventually Aziraphale found his voice. "Well. That was rather...um..."

"Ineffable?" The attempt at his usual sarcastic tone was rather spoiled by the gigantic soppy grin plastered across the demon's face. "Or possibly 'scrumptious'?"

"Mmm. Well. Both, really. So, I take it you also..."

"A human might say 'I could die happy right now'." The demon's smile faded. "But the truth is, now I just _really_ don't want to die. It wouldn't be fair."

The angel stroked his cheek. "My dear, must you be morbid right now?"

"They're going to be after us, Angel. You know that. Your lot _might_ let you live, but mine...well, Hastur witnessed _that_ ," he waved a hand toward the office that still contained a puddle of demon goo, "and then spent several hours trapped in my answering machine. He's not going to let that...let _me,_ go."

Aziraphale curled around his demon, unshed tears stinging his eyes. He didn't fancy the thought of losing what he'd just found either. "If it makes you feel any better, I think you're giving my side too much credit. Very fond of the smiting, some of them."

"No, that _doesn't_ make me feel better," Crowley muttered into the angel's shoulder, drinking in his bookish scent as if it was his last chance. Which, for all he knew, it might be.

"Or, well, I suppose they might...cast me out."

"They wouldn't dare," the demon growled. His tone implied that he might storm heaven single-handedly if they tried. Which was unutterably stupid, but rather sweet.

Aziraphale sighed. "Honestly, I've been half expecting to...to Fall since that whole business with the apple tree. I've made rather a mess of things."

"Don't ssay that," Crowley hissed, "You're the besst of them, Angel. The only angel I know more concerned with doing good than...than Great Planss and ssuch nonssense."

"Well, you said _you_ Fell just for asking too many questions."  
"Maybe sstandards were sstricter in the old days," the demon sighed. "Or, maybe, you were doing just what you needed to do. Well, think about it," he added in response to a quizzical glance from the angel, "We may have fooled our respective head offices with The Arrangement, but you don't think She missed what we were up to, do you?"

"Hmmph. Well, be that as it may...Sometimes I thought it might not be so bad, because at least Down There I'd still get to see you. But if they...if you were..." He choked up and couldn't finish the sentence.

"Nah, you wouldn't like hell either way," Crowley replied, attempting a bit of his old lightness, though the idea of his angel Falling (and particularly that _he_ might be the cause of that Fall) had been his primary nightmare fodder for centuries. "Unpleasant place - bad drains, fires all over the place, and not even a decent drink to be had to take the edge off it. Why do you think I pulled all the strings I could to stay up here...even when I didn't have the benefit of your company?"

They lay in silence for a while before Aziraphale spoke again: "Couldn't we...I mean, what about what you suggested earlier?"  
"Hmm?"

"You know...going off to Alpha Centauri or something?"

The demon propped himself up on one elbow and searched the angel's face. "You'd do that? Leave earth and your bookshop and everything?"

"Of course. Maybe..." he sighed. "We set out to save the earth. And it has been saved. But not for us."

"Huh?" That last bit sounded like a quote, but Crowley couldn't place what it was from.

The angel shrugged. "Paraphrasing Tolkien," he explained.

Crowley sighed. "Right. Well, that might have worked when I said it. They would have been so busy with Armageddon that they probably wouldn't have noticed we were missing for ages. Now they haven't got much to do other than track us down, unfortunately." He squinted at the angel. "You see what comes of trying to be all unselfish? We could have just ignored that damn book, gone our own way, and let things play out..."

"Oh!" Aziraphale sat up suddenly and slapped his forehead.

"What?"

"That prophecy - 'choose your faces wisely'!"

Crowley snorted. "Yeah, I remember. But what in heaven is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know if this would work, mind you, but...You know how, for a bit just now, we were almost occupying the same space?" He blushed.

The demon arched an eyebrow. "Almost is the key word. I'm not keen on blowing ourselves up." _Though if it came to it...what a way to go!_

Aziraphale shook his head. "I'm not suggesting we fully combine. I'm suggesting we trade bodies. If we just sort of...slide past each other in the right way, we might be able to manage it."

"Hmm. And then what?"

"Well, there's only one or two things each that can actually kill an angel or a demon. And assuming we still keep our essential qualities, as it were, I'd be immune to anything that could destroy you, and vice versa."

Crowley grinned. He'd always known his angel was clever, even if he could also be remarkably thick about some things. Such a swap would at least confuse their head offices for a while. But then a thought struck him. "Hang on, though. I don't like the idea of hell getting their hands on you, especially if they think you're me! What if, on the off chance they go for something non-lethal, you end up trapped down there?"

It was Aziraphale's turn to smile. "Well, I haven't had to go full avenging-angel in a long time, but don't think I don't know how to smite a demon if I had to. Why do you think they never asked you to interfere with me or any other angel directly?"

"Oh yeah. Fair point." Given that he'd been on friendly terms with an angel for six thousand years, and had spent pretty much all of that time smitten in a completely different sense, he'd forgotten how dangerous they could be. Even the least of them could go off in a blaze of glory that dazzled the eye of any onlooker and could leave any demon within arm's reach with second degree burns.

"But what about you?" Aziraphale asked. "Could you withstand being Up There?"

"Hmm. Well, considering that they likely wouldn't try smiting me or dousing me with holy water if they think I'm you...probably? It wouldn't be comfortable, but I could take it for a while."

"How long?"

"I don't know - never done this before. But your side doesn't tend to go in for lengthy in-house punishments. If they aren't planning on either forgiving you or killing you...well, I'm already Fallen, so that probably wouldn't hurt me." _Unless I fell all the way back into hell, of course. That would be awkward._ But the angel already looked worried, so he didn't say that bit out loud. "Look, I know there are risks, but I'm game to try if you are. How do you think we should start?"

Aziraphale sat up more fully, straightened his collar, and held out a hand. Crowley followed suit, clasping the angel's hand in his. "On three?"

The angel nodded. Each counted to three under his breath, and then reached out with his inner being. Light and shadow emerged again, not intertwining but sliding deliberately past one another. There was a snapping sensation as they separated once more. They opened their eyes and had the uncanny feeling of looking into a mirror that is slightly....off. We seldom get to see ourselves as we actually look - the image we see in the mirror is reversed. But it was a particularly odd feeling in this case for a number of reasons. For one thing, Aziraphale saw across from him not, as he would have expected, an embarrassingly plump angel who had indulged in a few too many good meals and far too little exercise, but instead a pleasantly soft figure with crisp pale curls and kind grey eyes1. It was as if the golden eyes he currently wore had their own memory.

Crowley, looking back at the form that was normally his own, noticed something else. "Well, I guess you're still you, Angel. You've still got your glow."

He didn't quite know how to feel about seeing that celestial light on his own snake-eyed demonic face. Cautiously, he manifested 'his' wings, half afraid they might have turned black. But no, they were still as snow-white as his angel's wings had always been. That felt wrong too: wearing white wings again after so many millennia. Although...there was something about that wrongness that was rather exciting. He leaned forward.

Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Not that I'm not tempted, dear, but don't you think we ought to practice our roles a bit?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," the demon in angel's clothing conceded grumpily. "For one, you still sound far too prim to be me. And you'd better winch in that aura a bit, or any demon would clock you for an angel at fifty yards."

Crowziraphale glared at him, but the glow disappeared.

"That's it - much better!"

"Well, what about you? I'm quite sure I don't smirk like that!"

"Quite right, dear boy," Azirowley agreed, folding his hands and giving a small, serious nod. "One must maintain propriety, after all."

"Bastard," Crowziraphale growled.

The demon suppressed a smile. "Well. There really is no need for that kind of language." He stood up and straightened out his waistcoat. "Honestly, though...How do you stand wearing all these layers? It's a good thing I'm cold-blooded."

Crowziraphale grimaced at him. "Speaking of clothes...since we're not supposed to be miracle-ing anything at the moment, have you got a jacket that doesn't smell like bonfire night in Nazi Germany?"

Azirowley nodded. "Of course, dear boy. Have a look in the closet."

Crowziraphale got to his feet in an oddly boneless movement and sauntered over to the closet.

The demon had never seen his own walk from the outside, but his borrowed eyes told him Aziraphale had somehow got the swish and swagger just right. "Very good, Angel!"

Crowziraphale shrugged on a new black jacket. "Hmm? Oh. Well, the legs seem to remember how to do it." He shifted a bit. "Do you have to wear the trousers so tight, though?"

"It's called fashion, my dear. You should try it sometime." Normally he would have added: _Besides - you know you like it_. But they _were_ trying to stay in character, after all, so he didn't.

Crowziraphale glanced down. "Your hands, dear."

Azirowley took his hands out of his pockets and straightened up. With mental habit fighting muscle memory, this might be trickier to pull off than he had thought.

By the time the sun rose, they had run through half a dozen scenarios each - everything from dealing with a customer who seemed dangerously close to actually buying a book to being confronted by Hastur or Gabriel - and were feeling considerably more confident. Azirowley left first, slipping out the back door. No one had seen Aziraphale come in the front of the building, so it was best not to be seen leaving either. He'd asked Crowziraphale to wait a couple of hours, then meet him in St. James' park. He wanted to have a sniff around the city first to see what the damage from yesterday was, and if he could pick up on any threats. Given that mission, he had to remind himself not to sneak, slink, or lurk as he might otherwise have done. Instead, he maintained the angel's characteristic placid walk, even remembering to periodically clasp or twitch his hands as if he didn't know where to put them 2.

There was a particular corner in Soho he dreaded passing. When it finally came into view he stopped dead in his tracks, unbelieving. The bookshop appeared to be completely intact. He bustled over to the door and prepared to effortlessly open it as he usually did. Then, remembering, he fished through various jacket and waistcoat pockets until he found the key. The books in the shop, which had over the years gained a similar degree of sentience to Crowley's plants, sensed his presence with some trepidation. They had retained a vague, unsettling memory of flame and crackling pages. And this being pacing through the shop, though it resembled their kindly guardian, was almost glaring at them, as if daring anything to be out of place. The only change Azirowley notices was that the books of prophecy had been replaced by various adventure stories: The sort of thing an eleven year old would consider far more interesting. They _were_ first editions, though, so perhaps the angel wouldn't mind.

Once left alone in the flat, Crowziraphale's thoughts returned to the hazardous puddle of goo in the demon's office. It really wouldn't do to leave that sitting around. But how to clean it up without using any miracles3? He looked down at 'his' long-fingered hands. Theoretically he should be able to touch the puddle no problem but holy water was strong stuff and if any bit of demonic essence lingered in Crowley's body it might still at least cause a nasty rash. Still, maybe he should do a controlled test. He reached out one finger and poked the very edge of the puddle. It was sticky, but not painful. Even so, the idea of putting his hands right into that muck made him shudder. Then he noticed the long black gloves that had been tossed in the corner. Perfect! Now if he could just find a dustpan... A quick search revealed that the demon didn't stock anything in the way of cleaning supplies. The angel sighed.

Marion Greenridge, who lived in a flat one floor below, was startled to hear a knock on her door just as she was making her first cup of tea. Who could be comig around at six thirty on a Sunday morning4? Peering out through the peephole, she was even more surprised to see a skinny, black-clad figure in dark glasses lounging on her doorstep. Marion did vaguely recognize the man as a resident of the building. She'd seen him in the elevator, but he clearly wasn't one for chitchat and his cool-yet-slightly-menacing attitude had always made her wonder if he was some sort of drug dealer or mafioso. Or possibly a rock star, but surely there would have been paparazzi and such hanging about if that were the case. She attached the chain and opened the door a crack. "Yes?"

"Yeah, sorry to bother you," the man said. "I was wondering if you might have a dustpan and scrub-brush I could borrow."

"A dustpan?"

"Yeah. Had a bit of an accident. With my...houseplants. Mud everywhere. And I can't...my housecleaner isn't due to come by for another week."

"Oh. Of course. Just hang on a tick." Well. Fancy Mr. Dangerously Cool suffering a gardening mishap. It was quite a funny thought.

"Right, thanks," he replied as Marion handed over the cleaning tools. "Have these back in a jiffy. Ciao."

Once back in the flat, Crowziraphale lined a bin with two garbage bags, donned the gloves, and scooped as much of the demon goo with the dust pan as he could. He felt a bit guilty; this mess had been a living being once, and whatever the demon had done it seemed a bit disrespectful to treat his remains like so much rubbish. _Well, maybe I can bury it later_ , the angel thought. He knotted the bags securely, rinsed off the dustpan in the sink, and took to scrubbing at the remaining stain with plain water. Once his ethereal senses told him that the holy water had been sufficiently diluted, he opened a window to help the remainder dry out.

Crowley's plants had monitored all this with a certain nervousness, sensing something was off about the being that wore their master's form and scent but gave off an entirely different energy. Crowziraphale noticed this, and stroked a leaf gently. The plants trembled. "Now what's wrong with you all?" the angel wondered. _They couldn't be_ scared _of him, could they?_ "Don't worry, the real Crowley will be back soon," he whispered. That didn't seem to make things better. "Oh, my dears. I know he talks tough, but he's an old softy. No, really. I'm sure he's _very_ proud of you all5."

Eventually Crowziraphale called up a cab to take him to the park. As he sauntered out the front door of the building, something caught his eye and he smiled. The Bentley was parked outside, once more gleaming and immaculate. He wondered if the demon had seen it yet. _Oh, he's going to be so pleased. Who'd have thought the Antichrist would turn out to be such a nice boy?_ He wondered briefly if he should drive the car, but decided against it. He didn't want to put out the cab driver, and anyway he didn't have a driver's license 6.

Things got a bit hectic for a few hours after that. But by noon both Crowziraphale and Azirowley found themselves dumped back on earth, in Mayfair and Soho, respectively. Crowziraphale was patting the Bentley, trying to come to terms with the fact that he'd just been dragged down to hell and then _let go_ when something buzzed in his pocket. It took him a moment to figure out how to get the sleek black phone to respond7 but his heart leapt as he heard a voice - his own voice - say: "Az...I mean: You're all right?"

"Mmmhm. You?"

"Yeah. Meet you...where we said?"

"Yep."

They met up on a park bench in Berkley Square and, when the coast was clear, shifted back to their usual forms.

Crowley adjusted his jacket. "Tartan collar - really?" Although he'd been fairly sure they hadn't technically performed any miracles today, he'd noticed the change in the color of the trim just before the other angels had kidnapped him. Perhaps Aziraphale's fondness for the pattern just rubbed off on the objects he came in contact with. They chatted for a bit, and the demon couldn't help laughing over the angel's gleeful recounting of how he'd made the archangel Michael miracle him a towel.

"Tempt you to a spot of lunch?" he said at last.

"Temptation accomplished!" the angel replied, with a playful shimmy.

As they walked toward the Ritz, where a table had miraculously become free, the angel regaled him with more details about his adventure in hell. He had a right to be proud. By the sound of it, he'd pulled it off cooler than Crowley would have himself.

"But what about you, dear boy?" Aziraphale said. "What happened, you know, Up There?"

The demon's heart sank. How could he tell his angel: _Actually, 'you' didn't even get a sham of a trial. Maybe no one but those blasted archangels would have even known you got barbecued_. "Er, well. We guessed right - they had my former side send up some hellfire."

"I suppose they were just as surprised at the result as your lot were?"

"Oh, yeah. You should have seen them jump when I spit fire back at them. Especially Gabriel."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Really? You know, I've never seen Gabriel so much as flinch before, and certainly not at me. I wish I could have seen their faces."

_He told 'you' to 'hurry up and die already'. I should have dragged him into the fire with me._

Crowley took a deep breath. He didn't let the anger go - he'd probably never let it go - but he let it sink down out of mind. All that was over, for now. It was a beautiful day, the first day of the rest of their lives. "You know, I think today calls for some champagne. Don't you?"

1\. Though these twinkled with a little extra mischief at present. Back

2\. A bit of an odd habit given the angel's abundance of pockets, but there it was. Back

3\. Or 'proper magic' as Crowley would put it. Certainly his card and coin tricks would be no help. Back

4\. The angel had considerately used his ethereal senses to find someone in the building who was already awake.Back

5\. Crowley was quite annoyed to discover that Aziraphale had spent a large chunk of his morning being _nice_ to the plants. Although he privately had to admit that that approach also seemed to work; A few of the bromeliads had spontaneously manifested flowers the next time the angel walked into the flat. And Aziraphale was right: Crowley hadn't _actually_ killed one of his plants over leaf spots in decades. The more sentient they got the weirder it felt. As a result, the doorman had amassed quite a collection of specimens that had been mysteriously left on his doorstep in plastic bags.Back

6\. Neither did Crowley, of course. Traffic tickets were something that happened to other people.Back

7\. Though at least Crowley had remembered to leave it unlocked.Back

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed the way the Good Omens mini-series decided to give a reason for Aziraphale and Crowley's confidence that their respective sides would probably leave them alone for a while (as that otherwise seems a weirdly optimistic assumption). However, I couldn't help wondering how they figured out the body swap trick. After all, it couldn't have been common knowledge that such a thing was possible, or it wouldn't have fooled their former bosses. And since exchanging bodies is an oddly intimate thing, it seemed reasonable that the idea might arise in the course of sorting out some other details about what this new situation means. I borrowed some inspiration for what that part might look like from Sunjinjo's "Wings, scales, nightingales" series, Ahyperactivehero's "Suspendin gravity" , and todisturbtheuniverse's "How strong the habit of idle speech" on this site - so thanks!
> 
> The title comes from an Adrienne Young song I accidentally clicked on while pondering what to call this. I say accidentally, because I can't imagine either Aziraphale or Crowley listens to bluegrass. But the lyrics were weirdly perfect for this moment:
> 
> Well, baby, I thought I was always ready  
> To take your hand, climb up, and ride away  
> But the good things in this life grow slow and steady  
> And I was tryin' to fit forever in a day  
> And now I sense there's so much here between us  
> Needs faith and space and time to make it right  
> So I am letting go, so that love can grow  
> Well, baby, I am givin' up the fight  
> ...  
> You belong, just as I do, to the dark and to the light  
> Right or wrong, it's just two points of view  
> So, baby, I am givin' up the fight
> 
> So amazed at all the blessings of our table  
> At the miracles of love that we've been shown  
> Well, as side by side we sit so young and able  
> To heed lessons learned and those we've yet to know  
> 'Cause when two hearts reach a deeper understanding  
> Well, their love it can survive the blackest night  
> So just let it go, let's watch our love grow  
> Well, baby, I am givin' up the fight  
> ...  
> You belong, just as I do, both to the dark and to the light  
> Right or wrong, it's just two points of view  
> So, baby, I am givin' up the fight


End file.
